Tide

By Maxim Griffin.

The dog knows the score – yips and whimpers of excitement – you promise to let her off when you reach sand – an old gate has been replaced with a metal stile – new signage warns of fines for overnight parking – you turn onto a concrete track flanked by impenetrable crowns of gorse – swarms of big flies, orange berries, spikes – coming the other way is a pack of seven tiny hounds pulling a lady behind them – they do not stop but in this brief encounter the lady has explained most of their medical histories – Frederico has a skin condition and is totally blind – Barney was rescued from a house fire in the foothills of the Pyrenees – Toby has ennui.

A finger post directs you onto the King Charles Memorial Heritage Coastal Footpath but you decline the offer – you and the dog cross into the dunes on a path of your own choosing – a rabbit worn meander takes you up and over and down and over again – the North Sea lies before you, eventually – there’s no one about so now is a good time to release the hounds – as is her way, she engages in several huge celebratory loops, practically skipping before returning to the relative safety of your side.

It is good to be in a wide open space – and there are few spaces wider or more open – south of the ports, north of the resorts, that’s the best bit of the coast – you’re partial to Mablethorpe at the season’s height but since the beach police got contracted in it’s made summer trips slightly uncomfortable – still – here you are – a heat haze wobbles the horizon – Fata Morgana, bent light – faraway tankers shimmering – the breeze conceals the strength of the sun – already up in the twenties and it’s not even lunchtime – a thread of footprints point east, paws with them – these are scenes that have followed us from the Mesolithic – walking out at low tide with a dog and a stick to see what you can find – you scan the sand carefully for interesting lumps and bumps – a dark mass draws your eye and you whistle the dog along – good girl – you cross an oily seam – sand and something slick – ten steps and your boots are thick with it – you almost slip but manage to maintain your dignity – you reach the dark mass and begin your inspection – sea burnt wood, real heavy – fixing of iron, encrusted nails you could sell as relics – seven feet of oak – this is obviously old – there are plenty of wrecks offshore to choose from – 19th-century clippers mostly – hardly anyone has written about the Bella Donna, a straggler from the Armada that sank in the murky shallows somewhere off Saltfleet – this timber is too big to salvage, the sea will have it back soon enough – you lift it up – it’s soft and there are things living on it – you place it down gently – the sand burps.

Exploring barefoot
Go on – you give the signal for the dog to run ahead – she gallops through mud and salt – you look south – figures of similar pilgrimages wriggle in the haze – they are miles away – you can’t see but can read from their body language that they have a dog or two with them – your dog comes bounding back, lapping at standing water in search of a drink – you pour some of your water into a cupped hand and she licks it up – you take a draught too – that’s better – clouds track steadily along – sun on skin – a bar of fine dry sand, very soft, very pale – you stop and peel off boots and socks – you’ve always preferred going barefoot – when you were a kid you were warned not to go unshod on the beach – sticklebacks, it was said, would come for you, would prick your soles, would drag you into the briny – you walk on in a methodical fashion – the dog pads softly, now more sand than fur, tongue out, onward.

The world reveals itself to those who travel on foot – the sea is closer now but you must first cross a series of glittering channels – a flock of tiny white birds strafe the surface of the first channel as you splosh through – the dog is cautious of water but takes your lead – the water is warm, clear – the dog enjoys this crossing and zooms back for another go – victorious leaps shake the muck off – a little climb up another bank of white sand followed by a wider channel – it’s shallow, ankle deep and sparkling with wind and sun – you and the dog are speckled with reflections – you feel positively tropical – you look up and ahead – the sea – good.

Seaside swim
Surf’s up and it is beautiful – white tipped waves as far as you can see – sun, water, space – the dog still doesn’t quite know how to react to the motion of the sea but if you’re happy, she’s happy – you go in a little, getting your shorts wet in the process – you watch the strandline carefully – the tide is still receding but it’ll turn soon – you’ve got Charles Trenet on your mind – La Mer – you look down the coast – deep breath – you look up the coast – breathe out – there’s a fella a mile or so north – he’s limbering up to swim by the looks of things – ah – he’s completely in the nip, skyclad – a bare bum to the sun as he plunges – good, good for him – it’ll give the seals something to chat about.

The sun is reaching its zenith – June high – you call the dog – good girl, good girl – you trace the line of your footprints until the ground requires boots again – you don’t bother to return your socks – an older couple herd a pair of small grandchildren – you buckle the dog up because it is polite to do so and compliment the young ones on their spades and buckets – they compliment the dog on her fineness and the transaction is complete and they disappear east toward the tide that will soon turn.

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